The Road Less Travelled By

Chapter 3

Primes are kinky bastards

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers; I'm just prostituting it for my amusement.

Summary: For all Cliffjumper's doubts of Mirage's loyalties, he would never guess the truth. Mirage was once a Decepticon. Jazz was an assassin for the Prime, and Prowl was just an Enforcer.

Warning: war, M/M robots

Pairings: Jazz/ Prowl (friends with benefits), Mirage/ Cliffjumper (friendship/pre-slash/who-the-frick-knows)

Klik: One minute, 1.2 kliks

Breem: 8.3 minutes, 9-ish kliks

Joor: One Hour, not giving it a specific length, suffice it to say that Cybertron does not share the same orbit or rotation as Earth, an hour, a day would be different lengths from ours

Mega-cycle: One Day, 93 hours/ joors

Orn: One Week, 13 mega-cycles

Quartex: One Month, 4 orns

Stellar Cycle: One Year, 7.5 quartexes

Vorn: Length of Sparklinghood and Younglinghood: 83 stellar cycles.


Cybertron, Approx. 9,000,000 B.C.E

It simply wasn't possible for Optimus to relax around Ironhide. In truth since he had been rebuilt, and had become Optimus Prime, relaxation had been difficult to achieve. But with Ironhide present, as he so often was, Optimus didn't even bother to try. He had read the contract for service to the Prime that had been written for Sentinel Prime's fleet of guards. Specifically, Optimus had seen Ironhide's signature, stamping his acceptance of the contract, and all the things it entailed. If he had not been Prime, Optimus wasn't certain he would be able to look at Ironhide in the optics. Though his outrage would probably have been magnified if he wasn't the Prime.

"Your makin' a big to do outta nothin'," Ironhide groused. Optimus frowned and looked over his shoulder at the sturdy red gunner. The comment caught him off guard, partially because Ironhide could already read him well enough to know what was bothering him, and partially because Ironhide had actually voiced his opinion on the matter without Optimus actually asking for it.

"I don't believe I am," Optimus replied, turning in his chair to face Ironhide. He was careful not to stand, to not tower over the smaller mech. Intimidation was the way of the old regime.

"I read the contract before I signed it," the sturdily framed guard said. He snorted and shook his helm. "If it wasn't somethin' I could do, I wouldn't have signed it."

"Servicing the Prime in all ways, Ironhide?"The Prime asked. His voice, he had intended to keep it perfectly level, perfectly nonchalant, but he heard the heightened pitch as the words were let loose by his vocalizer.

"There's a reason Primes always pick their guards from the army," Ironhide countered, meeting the Prime's optics. If Optimus expected to see any hint of shame, he saw none. Ironhide's optics were a sharp sky blue, focused, firm, and unapologetic. He was unaffected by the rigorous code of ethics that ruled Optimus. "Specifically from outposts in the middle slaggin' nowhere. Only unbonded soldiers get assigned to those posts. Unbonded soldiers are free to 'help' each other out if they get overcharged, or just need to relax after battle, waitin' for battle, or whatever. We ain't tied up in the highfaluting morals that seem to be buggin' you."

"Primes have no business ordering mechs into their berths," Optimus countered. "Choosing them from facets where they expect to find cooperation is all the worse. There is no record of a Prime choosing femmes for this role."

"Femmes wouldn't never go along with it," snorted the red gunner, as though it was a matter-of-fact. "They've got standards."

A femme would tear a mech, including the Prime, to pieces for producing that kind of contract and expecting her to sign. If a femme saw such a contract offered to a mech she favoured, she would rip the mech holding the contract to shreds for insulting her friend.

"And you don't have standards?" Optimus asked. He immediately regretted the question. It was not his intention to shame Ironhide. If anything he was a victim of the old Prime. "Ironhide, I apologize."

"I told you, Prime, I wouldn't signed if I wasn't willin'," Ironhide snapped, irritation evident as his optics flashed."And maybe I don't have any standards. Sentinel was an aft most of the time. But he was the spawn of Unicron if his charge got up. Didn't bug me in the least to help him out of it."

"It shouldn't have been in your contract," reiterated the new Prime. His own charge was high. It occurred to him that this was likely why he had difficulty relaxing. And it was the knowledge that Ironhide had serviced Sentinel when he had been in a similar state that made it absolutely impossible to for Optimus to relax with Ironhide present. Optimus' processor might have been wound up with the ethics and immorality of the contract, but his frame was beginning to think it wasn't such a bad thing.

"Probably not," Ironhide agreed. "The council wrote up the first one and it hasn't changed in vorns. Guess they didn't want the Prime trollin' for a frag."

Now there was a lovely thought. Thank you Ironhide. That wording was entirely intentional, wasn't it? Optimus could just picture lecherous Primes from ages past stalking the streets looking for mechs suitable for servicing their lust. Wonderful. Just wonderful. There was no way Optimus was willing to hand out this contract to anyone else. No new soldier would be asked to sign themselves away to the lust of the Prime. Ironhide would remain at his post, partly because Optimus was required to have at least one guard by the senate, and partly because sending him back to the army would be in no uncertain terms a demotion, something Ironhide didn't deserve. Sentinel Prime had had six guards, more than any Prime before him... Primus he had had a fragging stable. As far as his own overcharge was concerned, Optimus would tend to that issue himself. His frame would have to reconcile itself with that fact.

"I never asked what damage you took in the skirmish with Megatron," the large, blue and red truck frame said, changing the subject with no attempt at subtlety. This subject should be safe enough. If nothing else it would educate Optimus on what kind of damage his guard could take. What kind of fighter he was. It would also answer the question that had been nagging him. How had he survived the assassination of the Prime?

"Took a shot that just missed my spark," his guard explained. His frown deepened. "Cracked the chamber but didn't extinguish me or nothin'."

"You took the shot for Sentinel Prime," Optimus said, reading between the lines. Megatron had likely assumed that his spark would extinguish. Likely it should have. The most vital fuel lines fed the spark chamber. Any injury that could crack the chamber would have caused a serious bleed. Ironhide had strong spark to match his frame, apparently. Somehow this didn't surprise Optimus.

"'Course," Ironhide said, he crossed his arms and looked down at Optimus with open defiance on his faceplates. "I'll do the same for you when the time comes. My job."

"If I ordered you not to?" Optimus asked, raising an optic ridge.

"I'd ignore it," Ironhide replied, smiling smugly. "It's in the contract."

"Of course it is," Optimus grumbled in a matter most unbecoming of the Prime. He vented a great exhale of air. It was becoming clear to him that Ironhide was just as much a force to be reckoned with as the Matrix itself.


Prowl stared at his personal communication console, and debated what to write in his letter of resignation. His tactical systems weighed professionalism and emotion. To even consider telling his commanding officer just what he felt about them was out of character. It held no real weight in the matter. He was not terminating his contract because they had made his life the Pit for nearly two stellar cycles. The fact that mechs and femmes that should have been loyal colleagues had made him feel shame for Bluestreak's existence was not either. But Prowl's spark had morphed that shame readily into anger, and the anger had not yet faded.

What he did in his private life was his own business. There was no reason it should ever have affected his career. But of course it had. It had been Prowl's skills as an investigator that had raised the clearance rate for his station to such a degree that his lieutenant had received commendations. But had his lieutenant done anything to quiet to ugly rumours that had suffocated Prowl from the day he announced his sparking? No. Well yes, to be fair, he had attempted to silence them, once the rumours had started naming him as the sire.

Lieutenant Highground had naturally moved to quell the rumours then, if for no other reason than his own reputation. Other officers had been named as potential sires by the gossip mongers in the Enforcer ranks, but while Prowl had still been on active duty, it had been Highground's name most often raised. That did make sense, at least as far as any of the suggestions were concerned. Prowl had worked with Highground often, in between his own duty shifts, to help with one investigation or another. The lieutenant had seen the strength of Prowl's tactical systems even if they had been deemed defective in Prowl's personal file. That was why Prowl had never been credited with his work on these high profile cases. Doubt would have been placed on the quality of the work.

So what did he write?

To Whom it May Concern: I, Investigator 3rd Class, Prowl am hereby tendering my resignation so that I may move to Iacon with the sire of my sparkling.

No. It was true, but then it wasn't. Prowl was not moving to Iacon to be with Jazz. He was not with Jazz, not really. Who was to say if Jazz would even wish to take part in Bluestreak's upbringing?

To Whom it May Concern: I, Investigator 3rd Class, Prowl am hereby tendering my resignation so that I may transfer my residency to Iacon in order to have a fresh start with my sparkling.

Once again, it wasn't true. What fresh start? If Prowl wished to gain a post with any Enforcer station in Iacon, he would need to file the proper paperwork, requesting a transfer. It would take quartexes for the request to be even read, let alone processed. When Prowl submitted his resignation today, it would no doubt put a black stamp on his file. No station anywhere on Cybertron would offer him a contract.

To Whom it May Concern... No...

There was only one proper way to do this.

Attention Lieutenant First Class Highground,

I, Investigator 3rd Class, Prowl am tendering my resignation, effective immediately. It will become known to you shortly, through various channels, that the residence of my half brother, Smokescreen, was ransacked. Many theories will be offered as to what took place. Accusations will be made that Smokescreen gambled with the wrong mechs, or some such business. This is not the case. At my request, Smokescreen has been caring for/ hiding a young mech. This mech had/has bounties on his spark from both the Decepticons rebels, and the postumous Sentinel Prime. I will not explain why I saw fit to interfere in this matter between the Prime and the Decepticons. All I will say is that I believe the decision to be the correct one. Considering the faith you have past placed in my battle computer and logic processor, I hope you will trust my decision in this matter. In any case, the Decepticons have now discovered that the mech is still functioning. They have traced him to Smokescreen. Soon they will trace Smokescreen's connection to me, etc. For the safety of my brother, the mech in question, and my sparkling, designation Bluestreak, I am moving my family to Iacon. The sire of my sparkling has offered us shelter, and we have graciously accepted.

Please forward my resignation through the proper channels.

Prowl.

It was the best he could hope to offer. An explanation, such as there was one. Prowl considered naming Jazz as the sire. He considered revealing his tenuous connection to the Autobots. For a moment he considered defending himself. His sparkling had been kindled during an affair with an agent of the Prime. In no small part, Prowl had kept silent about Jazz for the sake of his career. Still, without his career being of any concern anymore, Prowl did not name Jazz, neither as an Autobot, an agent of the Prime, or by name at all. When it came down to it, Prowl's spark protested the idea that Prowl needed to explain himself at all. So he did not. With a great deal of anxiety and foreboding in his spark, and an odd amount of relief, Prowl submitted his resignation.


Prowl stepped from his berthroom, his doorwings high on his back and flared, a signal of anxiety and of determination. Jazz looked up from Bluestreak, who he was cradling, perhaps awkwardly, against his chassis, and watched Prowl. His helm was angled to the side and his visor glinted blue in the rooms ambient light. It was a measuring look; Prowl did not need to see Jazz's optics to know his body language was being studied, and deciphered for meaning. An unfortunate end result of both Jazz's extensive training and his somewhat disconcerting fascination with Prowl's doorwings was that he could read Prowl like no one else. Except, maybe Smokescreen, but that was debatable.

"Are you really okay with this?" Jazz asked as Prowl walked over to him. Prowl tried to keep his stride casual. He was certain he came across as stiff.

"I am," he replied. He had every possible anxiety over the situation and his resignation but there was an eerie peace in his spark. Bluestreak's future had been untenable here in Praxus. A twice damned bastard had no hope of entry into the best schools, the best positions in whatever career he chose. It would not matter if Bluestreak was brilliant, his illegitimacy would damn him. Praxian culture was unforgiving. Prowl had only been nominally accepted in private schools he had attended because his sire was someone of rank, and he had still been mocked with classmates call him the creation of an opportunistic slut.

The opportunistic part had been true. Though it had been his sire who had beckoned Prowl's carrier into his berth, it had been Prowl's creator who had intentionally been spark. It had been an excellent opportunity to climb the Enforcer ranks, payment for services rendered. Praxian society looked down on the carriers who sparked outside of bonding more than they did the sires. If they would just mind their sparks. If they would think before they let someone into their berths. Even those of rank carried illegitimate sparklings were held with some derision. Carriers without rank were ostracized, belittled and so were their offspring. Those illegitimate creations who showed great promise would have to hope for sponsors to get entry into anything better than the worst public university. It almost never happened. Being the bastard of a bastard, with a powerful grand-sire who would never acknowledge him, Bluestreak would not even have this hope. Iacon could easily be no better in regards to illegitimacy but Prowl would not have to discuss Bluestreak's parentage with anyone. If Prowl's lack of references and connections in Iacon damned him to some menial job with no use of his tactical systems, so be it.

Jazz watched Prowl silently for a long klik before he stood and handed Bluestreak back to his carrier. Prowl wondered what was going through Jazz's processor. The mech was never this quiet. Bluestreak made a happy trill as he settled into his favourite perch with his small helm resting in the crook of Prowl's neck. It felt so perfectly right, holding Bluestreak like this. When his sparkling curled against him, all of the anxiety of the last stellar-cycle washed away, though only temporarily. Nothing could ever make Prowl regret carrying Bluestreak.

"I'll take care of you," Jazz said, finally. "Both of you."

"That is not necessary," Prowl replied, though his spark leapt upon hearing the promise. Pride however, was one of Prowl's vices. "I will find work..."

"After you settle," Jazz interrupted. He wrapped a single arm around Prowl's back and lightly stroked his neckplates. Prowl felt the stiffness he had not known was present ease away. "Settle first, worry about work later. You deserve a chance to just breathe."

"We can go," Smokescreen said as he stepped from the washracks. His tone was tight and his optics were a cold, icy blue. The tension Jazz had bled from Prowl's frame returned at once. He knew Smokescreen did not approve of Jazz, did not like Jazz. And he knew that Smokescreen was not going to like the sight of any physical contact between himself and Jazz. Smokescreen knew what Prowl knew, because Prowl had been foolish enough to tell him.

Prowl's spark ached. It was a dull pain, testimony to the fact that his spark had found another perfectly in tune with it and had been so far deprived the chance to bond with it.


Earth, 1984

"Smokescreen really hated Jazz," Cliffjumper said. "They get along fine now."

"Smokescreen could be an over protective brother," Mirage replied. "More so once Prowl revealed that he was carrying."

"He really didn't want them to bond?" Cliffjumper asked, with a hint of scepticism. It was unheard of for two fated sparks to be denied bonding. That kind of bond was worked into every sparkling's tale. A gift from Primus.

"He believed that Jazz was doomed to hurt Prowl," the noble explained. "A double edged sword. On one servo, if Prowl did not bond with Jazz, his spark would never feel whole again. And on the other servo, if they did bond and Jazz got himself deactivated serving the Prime, well that would likely deactivate Prowl."

"Hard to believe Smokescreen joined the Autobots," said the crimson minibot. "Doesn't sound like he liked them much."

"Smokescreen detested the old regime," Mirage revealed. "He saw through Megatron, unlike me, but he hated Sentinel Prime, and the ruling elite, for many reasons. Optimus was still very new, and the changes he was making and attempting to make had not yet become known. Besides that, Praxus rarely let good press for the Autobots enter their airways. The city-state was fanatical about remaining neutral."

"And it always did," the smaller mech added sombrely. Praxus had remained neutral even as it was crumbled into scrap and ash.

"Prowl was right about one thing," Mirage said. "Praxus was steeped in tradition. So much so it was incapable of change."


Cybertron, Approx. 9,000,000 B.C.E

Smokescreen's digits and his optics never left his portable communication console. Prowl assumed that he was focused on transferring the care of his less urgent patients. He also assumed Smokescreen was testy over the display of affection he had seen between Jazz and himself. What was Prowl to do if he had to battle his brother to accept the sire of his sparkling? Worse still, what if Smokescreen's hostility chased Jazz off? If Jazz was already hesitant about raising Bluestreak, it was easily possible that he would wash his servos of the situation if Smokescreen gave him too much trouble.

Even though his spark knew that Jazz was the only mate for him, and he for Jazz, in his processor, Prowl recognized that they were still largely strangers. Their friendship had developed despite their deeply separate lives. Their physical relationship had begun as an outlet for pent up charge after they had both narrowly survived an encounter with one of Jazz's targets. Prowl had sustained minor, cosmetic damage to his left doorwing. The scratch had attracted Jazz's attention to that specific appendage after they had both consumed just a little too much high grade. With his own inhibitions lowered, Prowl had consented to Jazz exploring first that doorwing, then the other, then his whole frame. In turn he had explored Jazz's sensory horns, his servos, which he had quickly discovered were hyper sensitive, and one of the reasons Jazz was so very inclined towards touch. They had interfaced in a tangle of limbs, Prowl's tactical systems temporarily falling offline as pleasure had become the centre of his being.

Prowl had found himself marvelling the morning after at the power of that pleasure. No previous lover had ever managed to 'face his tactical systems offline. That was no small part of the reason Prowl had welcomed Jazz back into his berth when he danced back into Praxus after a few quartexes of silence, and then again, and again. And for what it was worth, Jazz had always come back, and he had always been happy to get his servos on Prowl's doorwings. Still, mutual lust was not the ideal cornerstone of a relationship, sparks synced or not.

"I've found an apartment for Mirage and I," Smokescreen announced shortly before the transport was set to land.

"Is that what you have been doing?" Prowl asked, the jolt of surprise that ran through him only expressed by a slight lilt to his voice.

"I've also lined up a few interviews for various hospitals," the brightly painted Praxian replied.

"You managed to arrange references?" The black and white brother asked.

"Naturally," Smokescreen said with the smile of a trickster. "I'm contrary and a defy authority. But I'm brilliant at what I do. That and I collect black mail."

"Of course," Prowl sighed, and shook his head lightly. "You could open a clinic again."

"I might," his brother agreed. "It's easier to built a patient list if you spend a little time working out of a hospital."

"Any objections, Mirage?" Prowl asked. It was the first time any of the older mechs had properly acknowledge his presence in a few joor. Even when he did not use his cloak, Mirage had a talent for disappearing.

"No," Mirage replied. He smiled, and relaxed visibly. "I'll try and keep him out of trouble."

"That is no small goal," Prowl said. It did not surprise him that Mirage would be happy not to live under the same roof as Jazz, even for a short time. Jazz would likely intimidate him for some time to come; Jazz had hunted him over much of Cybertron. They would have to get to know each other before that natural fear was likely to wane.

"I am going to want you to watch Bluestreak from time to time," Prowl added. Mirage was better with Bluestreak than Smokescreen was, and he was certainly less likely to expose Prowl's sparkling to vice. Though Smokescreen was actually not likely to involve himself in any mayhem with his nephew present. Despite what their sire had so often said, Smokescreen did have restraint.

"Whenever you need me," Mirage replied.


The mechs separated upon landing in Iacon. Due to Jazz's connections within the Autobots, they bypassed all security and stepped into the city streets within half a joor of landing. Prowl felt a moment of horrific panic as he watched his brother and Mirage drive off down the busy street. This was Iacon. This was it. His battle computer fed his unexpected anxiety. All the things that could possibly go wrong, plans for what do to in any of these potential worst case scenarios. Every joint tensed as Prowl fought off the very powerful urge to crash. Jazz stepped in close to Prowl, closer than he would ever have expected, or necessarily wanted in public and placed his servo over the centre of Prowl's back, between his doorwings. The low magnet pulses sent soft shivers of pleasure up and down Prowl's back and through to the corners of his doorwings. Once again, tension in Prowl's frame melted away under Jazz's touch.

"Are you always this tense?" Jazz asked, sounding just slightly exacerbated.

"No," Prowl replied, in too defensive a tone for his own liking.

"Easy Prowler," Jazz soothed gently. "Didn't mean to offend you."

"I apologize for being short with you," he replied and he forced his doorwings to lower from their highest level until they were centre on his back.

"You never have to apologize to me," Jazz said. "Just worried about'cha."

"Thank you, but I assure you I am well," came the Praxian's replied. And he was. His battle computer had dialled back. Iacon was simply just another city-state. A much larger, and vastly different one than Praxus, but it was nothing to fear.

"Have you never left Praxus before?" Jazz asked. Once again, his ability to read Prowl was both a marvel and an irritant.

"No," Prowl replied truthfully. "I never had the need."

"Never heard of a vacation?" The Polihexian asked. "Primus Prowler. I'll show you around later. Follow me home."

Before Bluestreak had separated from his spark, Prowl had configured himself with a small containment seat within his alt mode, and he had become an old servo at placing Bluestreak into the seat as he transformed. The Enforcer decals would need to go at some point; after all, he had terminated his contract. But for now he settled comfortably onto his wheels. Seeing Prowl had Bluestreak and himself under control, Jazz transformed, and took off at a comfortable pace down the road.

Prowl followed Jazz, all the while taking in the sight of every building, bridge, and corner they passed. The construction of Iacon was almost alien to Prowl. The buildings were tall, far taller than those of Praxus, and he wondered how they compared to the mythical Towers of Crystal City. While Praxus had a great many parks interspersed throughout the city, at least through the region of Iacon they were driving through, it was all great buildings, factories, statues, bridges. It was almost claustrophobic. Finally, as they drove from the city centre, the buildings became less grand, less tall, and Prowl saw parks, and other walking spaces.

"Here's home," Jazz announced as he stopped in a bustling little neighbourhood well out from the city hub. It was almost homey. Prowl heard music in the air, floating out from a nearby pub. With the same ease as when he transformed into his alt mode, Prowl transformed out of it. Bluestreak gave a squawk of irritation at being woken, and he did not immediately calm when Prowl crooned at him or stroked his back. A sure sign that he needed to refuel.

"He is hungry," Prowl explained when he saw the question on Jazz's faceplates.

"Let's go inside then," Jazz said. A few mechs and femmes called out greetings, and Jazz waved halfsparkedly in response. Prowl caught glimpses of frowns and shrugging shoulder struts. Jazz must have normally been friendly with his neighbours, somehow not surprising. At the moment he seemed to be paying little attention to the mechs and femmes around them. Instead he looking back at Prowl and the fussing Bluestreak. They were mercifully alone in the lift as it brought them to the eighth floor. Jazz reached and grasped Prowl's servo before he let him from the lift. The soft circles his thumb digit made against Prowl's palm sent a thrill through Prowl's spark.

His spark was a masochist. For all the power of his tactical systems, Prowl knew his spark ruled his reactions to Jazz. Before their sparks had demanded to merge, and to create the base connection that would become a sparkbond if they merged again, Prowl's spark had spun faster whenever Jazz commed him. Prowl had blamed it on the rush of both defying protocol, and the inherent danger of involving himself with a black ops agent. It had since become clear to Prowl that he had actually been infatuated with Jazz, from close to the very beginning of their odd relationship. Would it not just be perfect if Jazz did not feel this spark deep need in return? If the preliminary bond was only one sided? Oh yes, Prowl's spark was indeed a masochist.

"Make yourself comfortable," Jazz said, gesturing to his large, luxurious black couch. One thing that Jazz did not apparently skimp on, was comfort. Actually, it made sense. He chased, or had chased death so often he rewarded himself with comfort when he returned home alive. Prowl sat carefully, arranging his doorwings with care against the soft backing of the couch. His doorwings were happy to sink into it. Bluestreak made a particularly demanding squawk, guaranteeing that Prowl did not luxuriate for even a nanosecond.

"Just a moment, my spark," the carrier whispered softly to his sparkling. His battle computer did not fight him here. It did not offer thousands of courses of actions, protocols, or anything of the sort. When he interacted with Bluestreak, Prowl found his tactical systems quieted just enough to allow his spark to show in every touch and every word spoken to Bluestreak. Prowl drew his fielding line from its socket next to his spark chamber. Bluestreak latched greedily to the end, his small servos gripping it tight as he soothed his hunger.

"A cube for you," Jazz said. He drew Prowl's free servo away from Bluestreak and pressed the cube and pink fuel into Prowl's servo. "I'm thinkin' your supposed to refuel more now that you've got Blue."

"Correct," Prowl replied, a little sheepish that he had not refuelled in several joor. He had fed Blue before they had left his apartment, but had not bothered to refuel himself.

It was Prowl's turn to watch Jazz as the other mech sat stiffly next to him, staring at Bluestreak. He was staring so blatantly that the visor did nothing to disguise it. Prowl frowned just slightly and just for a moment. Jazz was sitting stiffer, and his servos clenched into tight fists; it was as if Jazz thought if he allowed himself to relax he would fall apart.

"Jazz," the former Enforcer began to speak. He searched his tactical systems for words, for advice, for anything to offer Jazz.

"Never wanted a sparklin'," the special ops mech confessed. Prowl forced himself not to recoil. This was not what he wanted to hear. Jazz shook his helm and looked up at Prowl's faceplates. Prowl was taken aback by the fear in the other mech's voice as he rambled on. "Never wanted the responsibility. There's so much at stake, you know? Never wanted anyone to rely on me like that. No sparklings, no mate... Primus. I'm in over my helm already."

"You do not have to, Jazz," Prowl picked his words carefully. His fuel tanks clenched and spasmed violently. He dared not attempt to consume the cube sitting in his servo. "If you do not wish to participate, you do not have to..."

"Oh frag, Prowl," the Polihexian vented, his vocalizer pitch high with emotion. "I'm not runnin' away. I'm not makin' excuses so you'll let me. I just need you to know I'm gonna screw up. On both of you. Don't know what I'm doin'. I don't know what its like to have someone waitin' at home."

"This has not come naturally to me, Jazz," Prowl replied. He hoped his confession would perhaps soothe Jazz's panic. "I have struggled with how to care for Bluestreak. I have wondered if I can possibly be the carrier he will require to grow confident, and capable."

"Really, Prowler?" The expression on the other black and white mech as he answered was anxious hope. "You're doin' alright from what I've seen."

"As Bluestreak grows I expect my tactical systems will be less and less inclined to be silent," the Praxian explained. It pained him to think about it. But on the surface, his expression was schooled. "When this happens, I am unable to express emotion properly due to how these systems are hardwired into my processor. They do not stop me from feeling emotions, but they do stop me from expressing them until the level of emotion reaches such a height that it overwhelms my systems."

"Prowl," the saboteur murmured, his voice was laced with pity.

"I fear I will become incapable of properly expressing and displaying my affection for Bluestreak," Prowl continued. He ignored the way Jazz's pity made his fuel tank twitch. "I do not ever want him to doubt that I love him, but it is possible, even likely that at some point he will."

"Aren't we a pair?" Jazz vented, a brittle chuckle escaping his vocalizer. He looked down at Bluestreak, dozing off as his hunger was satiated. Jazz touched Bluestreak's cheekplate with the tip of one digit. It was a tentative and almost pained gesture. "And if I can't love him, Prowler? What do we do then?"


Earth, 1984

"You were really afraid of Jazz," Cliffjumper said. He shifted. It was slagging uncomfortable sitting on the big, lumpy rock, but he didn't dare complain. Mirage would surely chastise him.

"Terrified," Mirage admitted, rather casually. "I was certain he was going to receive an order to terminate me. Part of me thought the whole thing was a convoluted trap."

"Paranoid glitch," the red minibot teased; without malice. It was odd really. To tease Mirage but to have no desire to hurt him with the words. The story Mirage was telling was giving him a great insight into the spy. Not just in how he spoke of himself but how he spoke of Jazz, Prowl, and especially Smokescreen and Bluestreak. Even if Mirage hadn't realized it at the time, they had become his surrogate family. Something he must have needed desperately.

"Not so bad as Red Alert," the spy countered smoothly. "In any case I was as good as deactivated if I stayed in Praxus. I just assumed that the Autobots would be kinder about my end than the Decepticons."

"When did you start trusting Jazz?" Cliffjumper asked.

Mirage considered the question for a moment before replying: "When I saw him next. He was so hopeless with Bluestreak that there was no way it could have been an act."


End Chapter 3

AN: You have an update, and I have a beta. Special thanks to Demonsurfer for rising to the challenge. I am working on updates for two other fics at the moment so this one will not likely get another update for another week or two. We'll see how the muse goes. I've a "wonderful" work week ahead of me.