Unexpected Suspect

"C'mon, Prowler, Ah know ya've always wanted t' see how Ah make all'a it!"

The Praxian vented and leveled an annoyed glare at his bondmate. "I have never displayed any interest whatsoever in whe-"

"Aww, Prowler!"

Another vent, this one longer and more drawn out. "... Fine," Prowl said after a moment. "I get off shift in two joo-"

"Prowler, yer on duty all th' time, an' you write the schedules. Yer comin'. Now."

Scowling, the tactician stood and followed Jazz from his office. They walked through the halls – well, Jazz sauntered casually, as usual, and Prowl stalked angrily.

If he were quite honest with himself, though, Prowl had to admit that he had wondered. Jazz had this way of procuring his supplies anywhere he went, without giving a hint as to where, why, or how. He had recently let slip that he custom-made most of it. Then, this orn, he had practically demanded that Prowl know how he did it.

And, again, if he were honest, Prowl was interested. He was a tactician; he thrived on information. And, having seen what Jazz used and had created for himself, he knew that this information could be helpful to have. One never knew when a bomb would come in handy, after all.

So most of the anger and frustration he was showing was faked. And Jazz knew it, too. The slagger.

Prowl followed Jazz through most of the base, all the way from the Command Center to the labs. The door the saboteur chose was nondescript, gray, and plain, just like every other door in the base. This one was, however, doubly reinforced, as all of the lab doors were after the arrival, and subsequent explosions, of Wheeljack.

"An' this's mah supply 'n' creation room, since Ah gave Percy mah old'un," Jazz proclaimed as he bowed Prowl into the room.

It looked, to Prowl, like any engineer's domain. Wires, bits of plastic and metal, and other odds and ends littered the shelves and tables.

"C'mon, over here. Ah'll show ya how t' make one'a th' little bombs Ah use fer distractions."

The Praxian followed his bondmate, a small smile creeping over his face. He could feel Jazz's excitement. He was always hyper, but when it came to bombs, explosions, and destruction, the saboteur got positively giddy. It was one of the reasons the lithe, silver mech had gotten to be so close to Wheeljack.

"So this is the mysterious lab where you create your fiery gifts?" Prowl asked as he glanced around.

"O' course. Now, here's how 't's gonna go... Take this..."

. . .oOo.

A high-pitched beeping filled the quiet of the room, and the two mechs standing at the table froze.

"Uh," Jazz hummed, blinking. "That ain't good. Ain't good't all."

"Jazz?" Prowl said warningly, dropping the wire he had just connected and taking a step away from the beeping device on the table.

"Prowler?"

"Yes?"

"We should run."

. . .oOo.

A resounding boom made the whole base shudder. Those in the Rec Room turned to look curiously at Wheeljack, who was currently blinking owlishly toward the labs.

Then he glanced around and saw everyone staring at him. He leaned back, optics narrowing as he frowned.

"That wasn't my explosion!" he cried, helm fins flashing rapidly through a multitude of colors. A few people chuckled.

It was then that Prowl and Jazz stumbled through the door, Prowl looking rather stricken and Jazz grinning like the cat that got the cream.

"Wo-owie, Prowler! Didn' know ya had 't in ya!"

Prowl turned an even glare on his bondmate, then glanced down at his white hands. "I did not know I had it in me, either."

"What do you mean?" Sideswipe asked, tilting his helm to the side as he regarded the black and white Praxian.

"Well, Prowler an' Ah were 'xperimentin', an Prowler got a little more inta it than Ah thought he would, an'-"

"Wait... You're saying... Prowl did that?"

The base commander shifted awkwardly, doorwings fluttering madly. "I-"

Ratchet, who had been sitting in a dark corner, rose, a scowl very clear on his face. "Prowl?"

Jazz snickered. "He blew 'em up, Ratch'."

"What do you mean?"

"Prowl blew up th' labs."

"What do you mean, 'Prowl blew up the labs?!" he practically screamed, and everyone, save for Wheeljack, flinched.

"He means, Ratchet, that I have learned that I am not qualified to make explosives, and will therefore avoid making them if at all possible."

That deflated the medic slightly. "Well. At least you learn. Unlike some glitches around here," he mumbled, turning an icy glare on Wheeljack.

Prowl just rolled his optics and turned around, intent on doing that work Jazz had pulled him away from.

Prompts/bunnies: "WHAT DO YOU MEAN PROWL BLEW UP THE LABS?!" And 75. Wheeljack: "That wasn't my explosion."