Title: Bedroom Optics
Rating: G for Good God, what was I thinking?
Warnings: a rampant imagination?
Universe: G1
Notes: Written in about 5 minutes while I was supposed to be taking notes on camber, toe, and caster in my auto shop class. (Doesn't my teacher know Prowl and Jazz are so much more fun than tire alignment?) I'm not very happy with this one, but I'm posting it anyways! Review!
As a rule, Prowl was not a mech to doubt himself. It just wasn't in his programming to second guess. Not to mention his job as tactician depended upon his absolute certainty. And until now, such had never posed a problem.
Now, here he was, after a single off-hand comment from Sideswipe, having a near panic attack. It had most likely been said in jest, but it struck Prowl so profoundly he could think of little else, no matter how hard he tried. His logic processor was threatening to lock up from trying to make sense of it.
He didn't know what to do, what to think anymore. But one thing was certain: he had to find some sort of concluding answer, some sort of closure, no matter the direction such took. As he was going nowhere but circles on his own, he – after much denial and lamentation – decided he must confide his woes in somebot. And there was only one mech with whom he trusted enough to do so.
"Jazz, would you say I have bedroom optics?"
Jazz nearly choked on his energon.
"Say what now?" he coughed, thinking perhaps he had misunderstood. Primus, please let him have misunderstood.
"My optics. Si – somebot said I had bedroom optics."
He was being completely serious, that much Jazz could tell. He was leaning slightly forward, hands braced on the table between him and Jazz, pinning the saboteur with an earnest look. Jazz considered pinching himself to see if he really was functioning and not in recharge. Just what the slag had gotten into his friend to make him entertain such a subject? And what had possessed him to breach the topic with him, in the middle of the rec room nonetheless? (True, the only other occupants were Hound and Mirage, and they seemed pretty occupied in the back corner, but still!)
Furthermore, what exactly was he supposed to say to such an inquiry? That Prowl's optics were windows to the ardor and emotion within the outwardly stoic mech? That his gaze was so passionate and fiery it made Jazz want to overload on the spot? That every time their gazes met, it took every ounce of self control he had not to jump his friend and snog him senseless?
So caught up in trying to form some coherent answer (and keep his errant thoughts from running wild and forcing his cooling fans on), he belatedly realized his mouth was hanging open and his energon still hung midair in his motionless hand. Setting down the latter and closing the former, he cleared his intakes.
"Well…" (Frag it all, the slagger wouldn't stop staring at him! Was he so completely unaware of what it did to him?!) "Uh… sure. I guess so."
Innocently unaware of the pains that Jazz had gone through to come up with such a nonchalant answer, Prowl straightened, expression shifting to one of satisfaction.
"Thank you, Jazz," he said somberly, nodding once to the saboteur. Jazz attempted to respond, found his vocal processor to be malfunctioning, and settled for a return nod.
Without further ado, Prowl turned on his heel and marched out of the rec room. Jazz sat motionless, watching him go. After a long moment of sitting in a stupor, he regained his senses, picked up his nearly-forgotten cube of energon, and downed it in a single gulp, wondering just why he was so attracted to the strange tactician.